


Gravity Always Wins in the End

by Annerb



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-03
Updated: 2008-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annerb/pseuds/Annerb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam is held hostage, Jack takes an impromptu trip to Atlantis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Day One

The small ship doesn’t land so much as smack clumsily into the planet’s surface.  By some miracle it maintains structural integrity for the most part, but that doesn’t stop Sam’s momentum from slamming her face into the controls in front of her, an explosion of stars filling her field of vision.

She remains prone for a moment, willing herself to stay conscious despite the seductive pull of oblivion.  An incoherent moan from her companion reminds her that she needs to keep moving.

“Sorry about the bumpy ride,” Sam manages to mumble through the pain, but Lorne, strapped into the seat next to her, is in no condition to answer.  His eyes are open, but she can’t be sure he’s aware of anything around him, sweat slick on his face even as he shivers.

Sam struggles out of her seat, not bothering to hold back a string of curses as the movement reawakens searing agony in her back.  She lays a hand on Lorne’s shoulder as she passes, shocked by the heat of him.   

“Hold on, Major,” she commands, her voice little more than a rasp.  

Wrenching a release lever, the side of the ship slides back and she hops down, sinking up to her ankles in sucking mud.  She can just make out the glimmer of the Stargate on the other side of the marsh they’ve landed in.

“Four hundred yards and you’re home free, Carter,” she says to herself, pulling one foot out of the muck and trudging forward.  

She loses it for a little while, focused down so intently on the placement of one foot in front of the other, the weakening of her muscles, the swimming black spots in her vision, but then she’s leaning against the cool surface of the DHD, her palms slapping at the familiar glyphs.

Her fingers fumble with the dials on the primitive radio as the wormhole whooshes into life.

“Atlantis, this is Carter,” she says, barely hearing the responding voices as the trickle of red down her side mixes with the dirt at her feet to make even more mud.  This planet hardly needs more, she thinks.  

“M1K-439.”  Her voice seems distorted even to herself, but she desperately needs the string of letters and numbers to translate so they can come save their asses.  “We’re on M1-.”

She stumbles, the black creeping greedily into her vision, conspiring against her with the buzzing in her ears.

“Need…help.”

She doesn’t know, as the radio clatters against the DHD, if she even managed to get those last words out.  

 _Hang on, Carter._

She slips.

*     *     *

Hank Landry has always known this moment would come since Sam Carter first signed on as Atlantis’ new expedition leader.  It was pretty much inevitable.  Granted, Jack has shown a laudable amount of restraint for the first six months of her tenure, no matter how colorful the mission reports that filtered back through the SGC became.  This latest escapade in the Pegasus Galaxy, however, appears to have been the final fatal testing of Jack’s self control.

“Dial Midway Station,” Jack demands and Hank can see Walter flinch reflexively, his body moving to follow the order before his mind can catch up.  

Jack’s dressed in casual civvies with a small rucksack over one shoulder, but his benign appearance does nothing to dispel his aura of command.  Hank puts a hand on Walter’s shoulder to stop him.

“You know as well I as do that travel to Midway is highly regulated, Jack,” Hank says, hoping simple logic will be enough to deter him.

Jack’s hand tightens around the strap of his bag, his mouth opening as if to retort, only to snap back shut on the unspoken words.  He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that makes the normally unyielding Jack O’Neill seem disturbingly vulnerable.

“Three weeks, Hank,” he says lowly.  “They had her for over three weeks.”

Hank is ready for belligerence, even overblown posturing, but the simple sincerity of those words, the barest edge of anguish that leaks in, takes him by surprise.

“Jack…,” Hank says, at a bit of a loss for words.

“Please.”

The soft word is matter-of-fact and devoid of pleading and Hank has to resist the urge to curse because his capitulation is just about as inevitable as Jack’s request.

“Dial it up, Walter,” Hank says.

*     *     *

“Unscheduled off-world activation, sir,” a tinny voice announces in John’s ear.  

Glancing at his watch, John confirms the insanely late hour before pushing to his feet.  Not that he’d been asleep.  No, sleep is for people who don’t have stacks of backlogged paperwork to wade through.  He gives the files in question one last nasty glance before abandoning Sam’s office.  

Sam was a captive for a little over three weeks and the amount of paperwork that built up during her absence is frightening.  Figuring the last thing she would want to come back to is a desk piled high with requisition forms, John has tried to make some progress for her.  Though, to be honest, he’s really just too wired from the day’s events too sleep, looking for anything to distract him from the deeply disturbing condition they found Sam and Lorne in.

Abandoning that unpleasant train of thought, John walks out into the control room, stepping up behind Chuck.  

“Receiving Midway Station’s IDC, sir.”

A visitor from Earth?  John looks down at his rumpled uniform, half-heartedly running a hand through his hair.  The last thing any of them need right now is Woolsey poking his annoying little nose into their business.  Hell, Sam’s been back for less than a day and he’ll be damned if he lets the cockroach bug her.

Teyla strolls into the gate room just as John’s descending to meet their visitor.  Seems he’s not the only one having a hard time sleeping.

“Midway,” he explains when she glances at the gate.

“Were we expecting another IOA delegation?” she asks, falling in next to him.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he shrugs.  “Not that I know of.”

When General O’Neill steps through, John automatically comes to a tense sort of attention.  O’Neill may be one of the most irreverent officers he’s ever met and the one to convince him to come to Atlantis in the first place, but he also fired John the last time he visited.

“General O’Neill,” John says, stepping forward. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I know,” O’Neill says.  “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”

He doesn’t strike John as being particularly contrite, but he’s willing to overlook it.  “Are you here for an inquest, sir?  We really haven’t had any time to pull any sort of presentation together.  Things have been a little chaotic of late, as you can imagine.”

“Sheppard,” O’Neill interrupts.  “I’m not here on business.”

“Oh,” John says a bit inanely, his temporary sense of relief morphing into confusion.  It isn’t exactly the Air Force’s style to let their officers traipse around the universe just for the hell of it.

“Where is she?” O’Neill asks.

Maybe it’s just John, but this conversation is getting harder to follow by the moment.  Some sleep soon might be a good idea.  He at least knows enough not to ask, “Where’s _who_?”

Teyla, as always, doesn’t look confused and steps in to save John.  Pressing a hand to her earpiece she asks, “Dr. Keller, is Colonel Carter still in the infirmary?”  

“ _Oh,_ ” John says before he can stop himself, the connection finally falling into place.

General O’Neill glances at him, a look on his face John can’t quite interpret, before returning his attention to Teyla.

Smooth, John, real smooth.

Teyla, meanwhile, seems to be still listening to Jennifer, a small smile on her face. “Yes, I understand.  She can be quite persuasive.  Thank you.”  Looking once more at O’Neill she says, “Colonel Carter has been released to her quarters.”

O’Neill nods, and before John can offer to show him the way, takes off in the correct direction, leaving John feeling like he’s completely out of the loop.  

“That was…unexpected,” John says.

“Was it?” Teyla counters, patting John sympathetically on the arm.

He should really consider paying a bit more attention to the rumor mill one of these days.

*     *     *

Thanks to his stint on Atlantis with the replicators version 2.0, Jack is quite familiar with the endless corridors of the city.  And if, by chance, he memorized the location of Sam’s quarters in a fit of melancholy, he sure as hell isn’t going to admit it to anyone.  He passes very few people in the halls other than one odd scientist mumbling to himself as he walks by in the opposite direction.  
   
Turning the final corner, Jack finds Ronon leaning against the wall next to Sam’s door looking like he’s been there a while.  He gets the strong sense that the man is guarding her door.  Either that, or that particular section of wall has been deemed unstable and he’s just holding it in place.

“Ronon,” Jack says.

“O’Neill,” he replies with a nod, not looking anywhere near as surprised by his presence as Sheppard.   Pushing off the wall (which manages to stay intact without the runner’s support), Ronon abandons his vigil to Jack.  “Goodnight,” he says before disappearing around a corner.

Jack stares after Ronon for a moment before deciding he doesn’t actually care what that might have been about.

Waving a hand over the sensor, Jack can feel the bizarre tingle of awareness being surrounded by Ancient technology always causes, something he’s pretty sure he’ll never get used to.  The door slides open to reveal a dim interior. 

“Sam?” he calls out, stepping into the room. 

He gets no answer, but moves in further, letting his eyes adjust to the low light.  It’s strangely familiar, full of objects he recognizes, but also distinctly alien.  A large bed fills one side of the room, the sheets untouched.  Dropping his bag to the floor, Jack follows the faint sound of the ocean to the back of the apartment where an open glass door leads to a wide balcony.

That’s where he finds her, sitting on a chair wedged into the small back corner, her knees pulled tight into her chest.  Her hair is loose around her shoulders, lifting slightly in the breeze off the water.  He can just make out the black stain of stitches high on her cheek, the mottled bruising and gauntness of her face.  She seems almost insubstantial sitting there in the moonlight, washing her pale skin even more translucent. 

She’s staring at him, having looked up the moment he stepped out, but still hasn’t said anything, her arms contracting around her knees.

“I know I promised not to barge over here every time things got rough,” Jack says, not sure if her silence is born of annoyance. 

She doesn’t respond, her eyes following him intently as he slowly closes the space between them.

“Sam?”  More than a little concerned by her continued silence, he reaches out and tentatively touches her knee.

She starts at the contact, her lips parting on an unsteady breath and then she’s up and in his arms, and God, it’s so damn good just to feel her again.  There was a time six months didn’t seem like the end of the world.  He slides his hands across her back, feels the unmistakable bulk of bandages under her sweatshirt, the thinness of her bones.

“How long can you stay?”

Her husky question tells him everything he needs to know.

“A few days at least,” he promises, suddenly deciding that there’s nothing pressing enough to need his attention back on Earth.  There’s no immediate threat there, they can handle run of the mill political bullshit very well without him.

He leans back slightly, hand tangled in her hair, his eyes taking in the damage to her face.

“I’m okay,” she says, her posture straightening slightly.  He can feel the tension sliding under her skin, see the dark shadow in her eyes that tells him she is far from fine.  He remembers a time when he was so good at deliberately not seeing past her lies.  Not anymore.

“No, you aren’t,” he counters, pulling her back against his chest and pressing his lips to her forehead.  “But you will be.”

Her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt, her face turning into his neck, and finally, _finally_ , she quietly falls apart, tears escaping, emotions he knows she’s been holding back with ironclad restraint for weeks on end.

He was right to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Day Two

Jack is sitting in the commissary picking at the Pegasus’s version of tuna casserole when Teyla and Sheppard appear, and after a brief hesitation, sit across from him.

Jack’s been down here for almost an hour. He’d woken to find Sam already hard at work at her computer, the daylight streaming across the unyielding stiffness of her profile. He’d grabbed a book off her shelf, leafing through it while she worked.

They spent most of the morning like that until she’d started to get that look he knew meant she was going to kill him if she didn’t get at least twenty minutes to herself. They’ve never been the spend-every-moment-together kind of people, no matter how much she hadn’t let herself move more than five inches away from him last night.

She has a history of finding some things harder to admit during the daylight.

Ronon and McKay follow Sheppard and Teyla to the table a short while later. Ronon nods at Jack, but McKay, busily in the middle of a scientific rant of some kind or another, doesn’t even notice him. That’s fine with Jack.

“I mean, I _told_ Zelenka not to let Miko near the damn thing, but does he listen?” McKay pauses to shove a giant forkful of food into his mouth and his eyes fall on Jack, widening almost comically as he chokes on his food. Sheppard whacks him on the back.

“What are _you_ doing here?” McKay eventually sputters around his mouthful.

Jack takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself that these are Sam’s people and she would undoubtedly not look kindly on him physically harming any of them, no matter how tempting.

“I’m visiting Sam,” Jack explains evenly.

“Visiting Sam?” McKay repeats with far too much incredulity for Jack’s taste. It isn’t that he expects Sam to discuss her private life with these people, but it’s a bit off-putting how inconceivable their relationship seems to be. Then again, it’s Sam, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Some days _he’s_ shocked by it.

“Yes, McKay,” Jack repeats. “I’m visiting Sam.”

McKay seems to deflate a little bit. “Oh. How is she today?”

All eyes land on Jack, full of genuine concern and he shrugs.

These people have had six months to get to know Sam, they should know by now that she’ll deal with this by going back to work too early and compartmentalizing away like she’s the machine she wishes she could be sometimes. If they don’t get that, there’s no way he’s going to explain it to them.

“She’s Carter,” he says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” McKay asks only to let out an indignant ‘Ow!’ when someone apparently kicks him under the table. Jack’s money is on Teyla. Her aura of serenity doesn’t fool him for a second.

Jack looks around the table, deciding that if he’s got to sit here with Sam’s frontline team, he might as well dig up some information on the situation.

“So,” he says, “anyone ready to tell me how the hell you let this happen?”

The question tumbles out into the middle of the table with all the delicacy of a bomb. Ronon shifts in his chair, somehow his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to on guard with the simple change in posture. Sheppard’s eyes narrow in suspicion, far too canny to take Jack’s sudden hostility at face value. Teyla just looks bored by his posturing. Only McKay visibly flusters, his mouth falling open on an indignant, _“Excuse_ me?”

With little more than a flick of his head, Sheppard manages to silence McKay and signal Ronon to hold off on maiming anyone for the moment. Jack’s mildly impressed, despite himself.

“I thought you weren’t here for an inquest, _sir_ ,” Sheppard grinds out.

Jack nods, spreading his hands wide. “Consider it a friendly request, then.”

They stare at each other across the table for a while, an unspoken battle of wills, until Teyla mutters something under her breath that is rather unflattering to them both.

“We were establishing trade relations with the Yorell,” she supplies, ever the diplomat of the group. “They are not a very advanced culture, having suffered greatly from frequent cullings, but their planet is rich with raw materials. They were eager for our friendship and our medical aid. They specifically requested Colonel Carter’s presence for the final ceremony.”

“And of course she went,” Jack says.

Teyla nods. “She often brokers alliances with new cultures in person.”

Jack isn’t surprised. It’s not Sam’s style to be hands off, no matter how much better he’d be able to sleep if she were.

“I sent Lorne’s team with her,” Sheppard interjects, his tone not hiding the fact that he now wishes he had gone himself.

“A third party blackmailed the Yorell to betray her,” Teyla explains.

“How?” Jack asks, wondering how a benign, primitive people could be pushed into that.

“They took their kids,” Ronon says, stabbing at his plate with his knife.

“As in their _children_?”

“Yes,” Teyla confirms.

“Jesus,” Jack swears. “Did they get them back?”

“Some of them,” Ronon says obliquely.

Jack knows he’s not getting the whole story, but isn’t sure he really wants to hear it either. “Who exactly is this mysterious third party?”

“They call themselves the Valedin,” Sheppard says. “Apparently it’s a coalition of humans that makes a great deal of money peddling protection from the Wraith.”

Like the Pegasus version of the mafia. Nice. “Is that a commodity they can actually supply?”

“As far as we can tell from our limited information.”

“You were cutting into their business,” Jack guesses, easily imagining how it all could have played out. “And they never intended to use Carter for anything as simple as ransom.”

Sheppard shakes his head. “We think they wanted her for information, but also…,” he trails off, but Jack can fill in the words.

“They hoped losing your leader would cripple you.” It’s easier to be blunt and matter of fact about Sam’s hypothetical murder here in the bright light of commissary when he doesn’t have to see the bruises on her face. Or maybe that’s just what he tells himself.

“We had no idea how to find them,” Sheppard admits, the words bitter.

Nothing sucks more than helplessness, Jack knows. “But you did eventually.”

“No,” Sheppard says. “She escaped.”

“Stole one of their ships,” Ronon adds with pride.

“Of course she did,” Jack says with a small smile.

“But not before they killed off Lorne’s entire team,” Ronon continues.

Jack’s already heard whispers of experimental drugs and drawn out deaths. “How did these people even hear of you?”

Sheppard shrugs.

“The Athosians,” Teyla says quietly.

“You think they were the ones to attack your people?” Jack asks, aware of the carefully neutral expressions the other members of her team now wear.

“The Athosians have long been the strongest allies of the Lantians, and their greatest ambassadors. It makes sense.” Her tone is almost defensive.

“It’s a possibility,” Sheppard qualifies, some sort of warning in the gaze he levels on her.

Teyla drops eye contact first, a faint tinge of red coloring her cheeks as she looks out the nearest window, her jaw set and hands absently caressing her rounded stomach.

Sheppard shoves his tray away from him, apparently having lost his appetite.

Jack doesn’t hang around for dessert.

* * *

Sam is struggling to pull on her jacket when Jack returns. He doesn’t make a comment about her going back to work too early, instead coming up behind her and carefully easing the sleeve up her arm.

A large part of Sam just wants to pull him back under the covers and spend the day with those hands chasing away the darker thoughts, but she knows that really isn’t a solution. At least not one she’ll allow herself in the harsh light of day.

“Ready to talk about it yet?” Jack asks, his hands still resting on her arms.

Sam forces herself to take a step away from him, picking up her comm from the table, and smoothing one hand down the front of her uniform. “I take it they filled you in.”

He shrugs. “Some of it.”

His tone is ambiguous at best, but she can easily imagine what he might have had to say to some of the people under her command. She sighs, knowing that even if he doesn’t do it on purpose, he has a way of intimidating people, and the last thing she needs right now is a rogue vector messing with her carefully balanced power structure here on Atlantis.

She wants Jack here, she knows that. She remembers all too clearly asking him to stay, the relief she felt, and still feels, knowing he will be here for a while. Only now, standing here in her uniform, she’s not sure what to do with him.

“Sam,” he says, cutting into her tangled thoughts. “I’m not here to complicate anything. This is your show.” She looks at him dubiously and he gives her an easy-going smile. “I’m just a guy visiting his girl.”

“Your girl?” she says, a smile already worming its way onto her face. Technically she’s offended, but knows that’s exactly why he said it. Damn him and his freaky ability to know the exact right thing to say. Seeing him standing there in his too big for him shirt with his hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets, she can almost fool herself that he isn’t a complication. Almost.

Sam sits down in front of her mirror, her hand automatically lifting to the stitches and purple shadow of a bruise under her right eye. Her hair is a bit of a wild tangle around her shoulders. She’s looked worse, much worse, but still wants to try to salvage something of her appearance before officially getting back on the job. Just another facet of command she’s adapting to: appearances really can matter.

She picks up the brush to wrest some control out her hair but involuntarily hisses at the sharp pain in her back the motion causes. She can feel Jack’s eyes on her, but he knows well enough to wait until she asks for help. Maybe in the safety of her quarters she doesn’t have to care quite so much about appearing invulnerable.

“Could you help me with my hair?”

Jack steps up behind her and takes the brush from her hand. “Sure thing, Carter,” he says. “Teal’c and I have been braiding each other’s hair for _years_.”

Despite all the intimacies they’ve shared over the years, this is not something he’s ever done for her. He’s amazingly deft with the brush though, carefully working his way through the tangles and she tries not to imagine when he might have practiced this. The rhythmic pull of the brush threatens to put her to sleep and she lets her eyes drift closed. He continues with the brush much longer than is probably necessary, but she doesn’t mind. Maybe he needs this as much as she does.

Eventually his hand slides under her hair and against her neck, his thumb massaging gently at the base of her skull, his fingers dipping into the hollow above her collarbone.

“I need one of those hair thingies, Sam,” he says, his voice low and slightly rough, his fingers still working gently against her flesh.

Opening her eyes, Sam meets his gaze in the mirror and she can see how hard these last three weeks were for him, how seeing her like this is still tearing at him. She picks up an elastic band from the counter, lifting it up to him, but catches his fingers with hers when he reaches for it.

“Thank you for coming, Jack,” she says.

Pulling her hair to one side, Jack leans down, pressing his lips to the side of her neck. Despite herself, she feels a surge of warmth at the contact, a shiver running down her spine.

“Anything for my girl,” he says with a grin.

“It’s a good thing you’re useful, Jack O’Neill,” she says, holding up the band again. She has no idea how she manages to sound affectionate and annoyed at the same time. Just another one of those strange effects he has on her.

He pulls her hair back in a pretty good imitation of a ponytail. After dashing a light cover of powder over her bruise, Sam decides she’s as good as she’s going to get.

“I need to go to the infirmary first,” she says, picking up her data pad. “You want to come?”

He looks surprised. “You really want me tagging along?”

She feels a beat of guilt for keeping him in the dark about her experiences, but thinks that letting him see for himself will be easier. Especially in the semi-public space of the infirmary. She tries to ignore the feeling that she’s being a coward.

“This way you won’t have to take the time to bully Dr. Keller into giving you a copy of my file later,” she says.

Jack tries to look offended, but Sam can see his amusement far too clearly to believe it. “I wouldn’t dream of harassing any of your people, Carter,” he protests.

Sam raises an eyebrow at the blatant lie and heads out the door. “You coming or not?” she calls back over her shoulder, not surprised when Jack falls in step next to her in the hallway.

Feeling him by her side in the halls that have finally become familiar, she thinks maybe her biggest fear isn’t that he’s going to complicate things, but that she’ll get used to him being here.

His hand casually brushes against hers, nothing more than everyday incidental contact, but it burns its way up her arm and she has to swallow back an agitated sigh.

 _Sure, Jack,_ she thinks, _you don’t complicate anything_.

* * *

Jennifer thinks Sam looks steadier, if not still rather badly banged up, when she wanders into the infirmary for her first wound checkup. General O’Neill is right on her heels, and Jennifer greets them both, guiding Sam to the nearest bed.

Sam sits patiently while she checks her face, pressing firmly along her cheek bones to make sure that the blow to her face had not cracked any bones she may have missed in her initial exam.

“How’s the headache?” Jennifer asks, aware that General O’Neill is closely observing, but choosing to ignore him for now.

“Not bad,” Sam hedges.

Jennifer interprets this to mean it’s still pretty bad, bad enough to need something to ease it, or she would have just lied and said fine. “I’ll get you a script.”

Sam nods her agreement without comment.

“And how did you sleep?”

Sam seems to pause, as if considering the question. “Fine,” she decides.

There is the soft sound of someone clearing their throat, but when Jennifer looks up at the source, General O’Neill’s expression is completely neutral as if he hasn’t just called Sam’s bluff.

“I slept well enough,” Sam reiterates, her tone warning them to disagree with her at their own peril.

The general remains noticeably silent and Jennifer follows his lead. Sam is obviously at her edge of patience with coddling.

“I’ll need to change your bandages,” Jennifer says, pulling the curtain around them and trying not to look surprised when General O’Neill steps calmly into the sequestered space. Jennifer raises an eyebrow at him in askance, but he just stares back at her as if his presence is the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, breaking the stalemate and already sliding her jacket down her arms, following with her shirt after a brief struggle with the fabric.

Neither Sam nor the general seem to think Sam’s partial nudity is a big deal, so Jennifer puts on her professional face and refuses to speculate, even though the rest of the city is already fairly buzzing with rumor and innuendo. Sam lies down on the bed to give Jennifer better access to the bandages that cover her back from shoulder to waist.

Jennifer suppresses a shudder as she remembers the state Sam had returned to them in not so very long ago. Everyone had been disquieted to see their base commander return to Atlantis unconscious on a stretcher, her face terribly pale under the blood and bruising marring her skin. As someone who has become an active, vital part of the city, it was unnerving to see her so still.

The injuries to her back are unlike anything Jennifer has ever seen in her career: a wild tangle of ragged gashes where the sharp impact of a leather lash had torn open the flesh. Some are partially healed, others only days old. Worst of all, though, are the thin scars underneath, at least a decade old, the lines that speak to the fact that this isn’t the first time someone has taken a whip to Sam Carter.

The tension in the small space ratchets up with each bandage she removes, each wound she reveals. General O’Neill hasn’t said a word, still standing a few feet away with his arms crossed. When Jennifer dares to glance up at him, his face is completely devoid of expression and it sends a chill down her spine.

Her fingers unintentionally tense and Sam shifts, looking up at her. “Could you give us a minute, Dr. Keller?”

“Sure,” Jennifer automatically says. “I need to grab a few supplies anyway.”

She escapes out of the curtain, carefully closing it behind her, trying not to hear Sam’s soft voice as she says something to General O’Neill. Jennifer pulls open a cabinet, digging out lengths of gauze and a vial of the wonder serum they’d traded for with one of the Athosian allies earlier in the month. She dawdles a few moments longer, poking aimlessly at her data pad before heading back across the room to the curtained cubicle when she decides she’s given them enough time.

“I _know_ , Carter,” she can hear General O’Neill saying as she nears. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t want to kill the son of a bitch.”

The general is standing close to the edge of the bed when Jennifer enters, his hand casually resting on the bed right near Sam’s elbow, but not quite touching it. He doesn’t move away and Jennifer busies herself cleaning the wounds.

“These are looking much better,” Jennifer observes to no one in particular. “The Tanthri serum seems to be working well.”

“New miracle medicine,” Sam explains, her head still turned towards the general. “Should be quite a hit back on Earth.”

“Anything that might shut up Woolsey for any length of time would be muchly appreciated,” General O’Neill replies and Jennifer has to wonder at their amazing ability to jump from gravity to amusement in the blink of an eye.

The pair continues in this vein while Jennifer replaces the bandages with fresh ones, but she can’t help but think that their light-hearted disparaging of Woolsey is a cover for something else brewing right under the surface.

When she finishes, Sam pulls her uniform back into place, her data pad already in hand and Jennifer gives the colonel a dubious look. “Are you planning on going back to work already?”

“Yes,” Sam confirms, one eyebrow raised in warning.

“Normally you would order anyone with your injuries to take at least a week or two off,” Jennifer observes, crossing her arms over her chest, refusing to be deterred.

“Unfortunately, Doctor, our current situation doesn’t allow for such a luxury,” Sam replies, just the slightest edge of steel lining her voice as she jumps down off the bed.

“Well, I’d hate to let the situation get to a point where I’d have to pull rank, Colonel,” Jennifer says, letting her know that she’s perfectly capable of doing it if she has to.

General O’Neill has been looking back and forth between the two women. Turning to Sam, he loudly declares, “I like her.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “I knew you would.”

The two stare at each other for a bit longer than Jennifer’s comfortable with and she clears her throat. “I’ve got time in my schedule if you’d like a trip through the scanner while you’re here, sir,” she offers, amused to see the man’s face lose all trace of amusement.

“No, uh, really. Wouldn’t want to be a drain on precious resources,” he says, throwing pleading glances in Sam’s direction as if asking her to not let her people torture him.

But Sam doesn’t notice, her eyes darting back towards the isolation rooms. “How is Lorne today?” she asks in a careful tone.

Jennifer frowns, tapping various files in her data pad. “No change. The anti-viral meds are still having very little effect. Until I know what’s been done to him with greater certainty…,” she trails off, not really wanting to speak the damning words.

“We’ll get you your answers, Doctor,” Sam promises, still staring back toward Lorne’s room, her jaw taking on a stubborn tilt that fills Jennifer with unease.

Shaking her head as if clearing her thoughts, Sam turns on her heel and heads out of the infirmary, the thoughtful looking general right behind.

* * *

“The rec rooms are all in the next pier,” Sam says with a jut of her chin down the next hallway.

Jack slows to a stop next to her, a wry half-smile on his face as if he’s really trying not to look amused. They both know he has little to no interest in ping pong or golfing, but it’s the only round about way she can think of asking him to let her get back to her job—alone.

A few people are filing in and out, many of them giving Sam bright, relieved smiles when they catch sight of her.

“Colonel Carter,” they say before their eyes move on to Jack.

Sam greets them by name, Jack just nodding as they move on.

“If you don’t mind,” Jack says during a break in traffic, “I’m going to explore around a bit. You know, while I’m _not_ being chased by robots.”

“Replicators aren’t-,” Sam starts to correct, only to catch herself.

Jack grins. “I don’t suppose asking you not to work too hard is going to do me any good.”

“Probably not,” she admits, her mind already turning towards the piles of work ahead of her with something akin to relief.

“Oh well, it was worth a try.” His tone is light, and she knows he’s making this easier on her than she probably deserves. Most people might be offended to be displaced so soon after a six-month separation.

It’s possible he just gets how important jumping right back into work is to her.

“I’ll be fine, Carter,” he says, apparently reading her hesitation.

She hefts a smile on her face, giving his arm a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you later.”

“Count on it.”

She forces herself to turn around and walk away.

John is in the control room when Sam gets there, lounging back on a chair with his feet propped up on a console.

“Colonel,” John says, scrambling up from his chair. She can tell he hadn’t expected to see her today. “It’s good to see you up and about.”

Sam is uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on her, assessing, judging. She smiles. “Thanks. I’m eager to get back to work.”

“Great,” John says, following her when she gestures towards her office.

She pauses momentarily on the threshold, her fingers clenching around her data pad, but if John notices, he doesn’t say anything. Forcing herself in and around her desk, she sits down.

“I finished catching up on the mission reports,” she says.

“What, all of them?” He’s back to looking surprised and vaguely concerned.

She drops his gaze. It’s easy to get caught up when you’re not sleeping. “It looks like you did a great job while I was…away. Not that I’m surprised.”

“Hey, you know how I feel about this stuff,” he says, waving vaguely at her desk. “Very glad to hand it back over.”

There was a time Sam would have thought him crazy for not wanting this job, but now she’s beginning to see a certain amount of wisdom in it. At least he knows himself that well, which is more than most people can say.

“Well,” she says with a smile, “thank you anyway.”

Johns drops down into a chair. “So, any specific reports you want to go over?”

Sam shakes her head. “Right now, I’m more interested in what’s going on with the Valedin ship.”

“Of course,” John says, leaning forward. “I sent a team of technicians to check it out this morning.” He glances at his watch. “They have a check in scheduled two hours from now. We should have a better idea then of what kind of shape it’s in.”

Sam nods. “I’d like Rodney and Zelenka on this as well, if they aren’t in the middle of anything vital.”

“Sure. When?”

“Immediately. We need to get as much information about the Valedin as possible. Star charts, data files, anything that might be on that ship. I suspect it’s a medical transport, considering where I got it.”

“This about Lorne,” John surmises.

“You read my report?” she asks.

His mouth presses into a thin line. “Yes.”

“Then you know odds aren’t looking so great for him. Whatever that injection they were giving him, it killed Cahill and Miller.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, but John doesn’t mention Reed, and she’s grateful for the omission.

Sam had written her own report of the experience almost the moment Keller finally let her free of the infirmary, wanting it out and over and done with. Something concrete to point to in answer to any questions that might arise in the next few days. Anything to avoid ever speaking of it directly.

Of course, that had been before Jack O’Neill factored into the equation.

“I really hate these guys,” John mumbles.

“What?” Sam asks, bringing her attention back to him.

“I’ve seen a lot of torture techniques, but the idea of using prisoners as lab rats…”

Sam nods in understanding, one hand lifting to her bruised cheek. It’s a harsh reminder that even with her injuries, she was the lucky one.

“I got the feeling they did it quite often,” Sam says without thinking, remembering the ease and efficiency of her captors.

The comment catches John’s attention. “You don’t think the Yorrel children…”

“I really hope not,” she says, but she can’t quite hold his gaze and it gives her away.

There had been crying, some days, echoing down the hall to her cell. Voices far too young…

John sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ll go tell Rodney and Zelenka,” he offers, pushing out his chair.

“Thanks.” She turns her attention to the stacks of paper covering her desk.

“Sam?” he says, and she looks up to find him regarding her from the doorway. “It’s really great to have you back.”

Sam bites down on the inside of her cheek, nodding in response, not quite trusting herself to speak.

With an easy grin and a quick wave, he disappears.

* * *

Jack nods to the technicians on duty in the control room as he enters. Off to the other side, he can see Sam at her desk, where she’s been hiding in plain sight for the last few hours. Keller already bullied her into eating dinner, he knows. He can see the half finished tray pushed off to the side of her desk.

Sam Carter at work is by definition a thing of grace, never so at ease as when she’s elbow deep in something complex and delicate whether that’s the guts of a ship or a nasty bureaucratic tangle.

Tonight, however, there is only disjointed motion, nothing holding her attention long as she jumps from computer to papers to files. To the untrained eye, she seems actively busy, radiating the idea that she is doing Very Important Things. Having spent a decade watching her work though, Jack recognizes the edge of agitation to her movements that tells him she’s faking it.

What he’s not so clear on is why she’s bothering to pretend in the first place. Whether for her own benefit or that of her people walking by, to reassure them that things are normal, he doesn’t know.  
 _  
I’m here, I’m working, everything is fine_ , she seems to scream.

Jack’s not fooled.

“Can’t find anything to do?” he asks from the doorway.

She tries to give him the ‘I’m very busy, go away’ look, but quickly realizes he’s not buying it.

Her pen drops to the desk with a petulant thud. “John did my paperwork for me,” she admits.

Jack winces at the rookie mistake. Poor guy, how could he have known how essential paperwork is to Sam’s recovery? “I’m sure he meant well.”

“Yeah,” she says, almost but not quite pouting.

“He just got his ass kicked by Ronon with those stick things, if that makes you feel any better,” Jack offers.

A hint of amusement crosses her features. “Yeah, actually, it does.”

Jack takes a few steps into the office, looking around. It hasn’t changed all that much since it was Elizabeth Weir’s domain. He knows the generic abstract sculptures are more likely gifts from allies than part of either woman’s personal art collection. In fact, the only truly personal touch seems to be the row of framed photographs filling the shelf behind her desk. He skims them, easily recognizing most of them, his own face catching his eye a few times.

“What?” she asks, following his gaze.

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrow.

He shrugs. “Some people were really surprised to see me here, and yet, it doesn’t look like you tried too terribly hard to hide it.”

She’s looking amused again. “I also have photographs of Daniel. Doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with him.”

Jack picks up a photo of all four members of the original SG-1. “Well, you know what they used to say about the four of us,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Sam rolls her eyes. “Oh, trust me, I remember.”

“Come on,” Jack says, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Looking resigned, she reaches to take his hand, only to drop it back to her side after a quick glance behind her. Jack turns to see at least four heads in the control room look away at the same time.

He takes another moment to study the room. “It’s a nice office, Carter, but doesn’t all this glass make you feel like you’re on exhibit at the petting zoo?”

Picking up her computer, she slips past him towards the door. “Every damn day,” she says under her breath.

He thought so.

* * *

 _The day after the first member of Lorne’s team dies, they start injecting Captain Reed._

 _He’s so young and he knows exactly what will happen to him, having been forced to watch Dr. Cahill’s slow disintegration over those long four days. But he’s a soldier, his focus intent when Sam gives him orders they both know he can’t follow, clinging to the comfort to be found in structure._

 _The tenth night he’s as bad as Cahill ever got, chains rattling with his tremors, sweat dripping from his nose._

 _“Look at me, Captain!” Sam demands from her neighboring cell, just barely able to reach through and touch his outstretched fingers. The kid raises his eyes to her with difficulty. “You will hold on, do you understand me?”_

 _“Y-yes, Ma’am,” he replies. Sam thinks he would have saluted if he could._

 _She doesn’t know how, but he follows her orders to the letter, the next morning finding Reed breathing easier, his tremors smoothing out. Lorne and Sam share relieved glances._

 _“You’ve got a fine officer there, Major Lorne,” Sam says with a smile._

 _“Yes, Ma’am,” he agrees._

 _The kid looks so damn proud and she’s glad._

 _At least until they bring the Wraith in._

 _She can do nothing but watch as they let it feed on Reed, stealing year after year of youthful ambition, decades of could-have-beens. His face sinks in, skin like paper, his mouth hinged open on a silent scream, but his eyes…his eyes remain latched on Sam, looking for orders, looking for help._

 _She can do nothing._

 _If their captors look more disappointed than satisfied by Reed’s drawn-out death, Sam doesn’t have time to contemplate it because one of the clipboard-carrying observers makes the mistake of straying too close to Sam’s side of the cage and she strikes out at him without thinking, grabbing him and slamming him back against the unyielding bars as if she might be able to force him to undo what’s been done._

 _She’s never been so close to killing someone with her bare hands, rage spilling up and over the edges, her fingers closing around the man’s delicate throat. It takes three taser hits to get her to release him. Worst of all, though, is the look on Lorne’s face as they slam her into the floor, careful to lean into the open gashes in her back._

 _He’s staring at her with horror._

 _Their captors don’t make the mistake of leaving her unrestrained again._

Sam bolts awake with gasp, her face lifting up from the pillow clutched in her arms. There’s a moment or two of disorientation before she finally places herself, the terror of her dreams clinging stubbornly to her senses. She tries to feel relief, to remind herself that she's safe now, but they’re hollow reassurances and the tension refuses to leave her body.

She considers bolting for the balcony, just to get away and out there and open.

The bed shifts slightly and she knows Jack’s watching her in the dim light. His hand brushes warmly against her arm and she turns her head to meet his gaze, reads the concern there. He’s staring at her like she’s something fragile. That’s not what she wants.

Leaning across the space between them, she kisses him.

He’s caught a bit off guard, his hand moving up to grab her shoulder. He responds eagerly enough, but keeps it slow and languorous, careful. She slides her leg over his, pressing up against his body, demanding more than his tenderness.

“Sam,” he says lowly.

She knows he wants to give her the chance to talk, his tone warning that this isn’t going to solve anything, but she doesn’t care, just knows that she needs this, needs _him_ and that despite Jack’s misgivings, he’s already responding to her, his body moving ahead of his mind.

“Jack,” she says, running a hand down his stomach, pressing against the undeniable evidence of his desire. He lets out an unsteady breath, his hands tightening on her arms and it’s a bit heady to know that she can still affect him this way, reassuring that their time apart hasn’t dampened anything. It’s something solid to hang on to.

His fingers trace along the edge of her bandages, his eyes intent on her bruised cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” she promises, shifting her weight until she’s sitting on top of him, his hands automatically moving to her hips. Ignoring the protest of her back she pulls her tank top up and over her head, dropping it to the floor.

Apparently having decided not to fight this, Jack sits up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he claims her mouth, his tongue sweeping in with long months of suppressed need. Sam wants to sob with relief, feeling the mindless throb of desire taking over. Her hands insistently reach for the waist of his pants, not wanting to wait a moment longer to feel him inside her, to lose herself. Anything to drive away the image of that young terrified face, frozen in death.

Jack catches her hands, pulling them up against his chest. “There’s no rush, Carter,” he says, working his mouth up the side of her neck, his teeth grazing the lobe of her ear as his knuckles brush tantalizingly across her breasts. She shudders against him, the combination of sensations and her name, _that_ name, on his tongue as he does this to her, it loosens every joint in her body, draining the last remaining edge of terror from her and replacing it with the liquid crawl of heat. She lets her eyes drop shut, knowing he’ll draw this exquisite feeling out as long as he possibly can.

In perfect synch, as if six months haven’t passed, he knows exactly what strings to pull, where to touch her to build that steady, blinding wave until she’s ready to plead, his name coming out as little more than a trembling breath. He doesn’t make her wait too long, his mouth latching onto her breast as his fingers slide deep inside of her. She shifts insistently against him, beyond caring that she’s crying out, her hand tangled in his hair, encouraging the twist of his tongue against her nipple. Finally, _finally_ , his thumb brushes against her, just the right amount of pressure and she’s lost, her entire body tensing as she rides out the tumbling tide.

There’s a tiny perfect moment there where she forgets everything but this feeling he’s conjured in her.

Leaning forward, she presses her mouth to his collarbone, running her tongue right along the edge to taste the salt of his skin. Only then does he finally guide her down onto him, tantalizingly slow increments until he fills her completely. She knows, just from the cadence of his breathing and the firm grip of his fingers, that he’s right on the edge, fighting to maintain his control. Drawing her bottom lip through her teeth, she rocks against him, twisting slightly and she’s rewarded with an incoherent sound from the back of Jack’s throat, his eyes almost rolling back.

“Jesus, Carter,” he rasps and she smiles, drawing away from him again, feeling the strain in her muscles, but too intent on pushing him that last final inch to care. This time she lifts almost completely off of him before sliding back down and he pulls at her hips, thrusting up to meet her halfway.

Any attempt at maintaining a coherent rhythm falls to the wayside almost immediately, Jack’s restraint having been pushed as far as it will go. His fingers dig into her thighs and she likes the thought of bruises on her body being born of ardent intensity and bone-deep need rather than subjugation.

Her name erupts from his lips sounding like it’s been ripped from the back of his throat. When he says her name like that, holding her tight against him, she’s almost willing to believe everything can be okay again.

He pulls her with him as he sinks back in the bed, kissing her intently before letting his head drop back into his pillow with a garbled sound of contentment.

She lies there for a while, head pressed to his chest as she listens to the rapid staccato of his heart with something akin to accomplishment. When he recovers enough to start playing with her hair, tender stokes against her scalp, she lets her eyes close, concentrating on crawling into the sensation of feeling precious and cared for. She no more than drifts into the slightest slumber though, when the haunting images begin to creep back in--far too soon.

Deliberately sliding up along his body, she kisses him as she gets up and his arm just flops rather uselessly in an attempt to keep her in bed. She sidesteps out of reach, trying to ignore the burning protest of her back, hoping she hasn’t popped any of her stitches. That would be hard to explain to Keller.

“You okay?” he asks, lifting himself up on his elbow.

“Yeah,” she says with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m just going to…” She tilts her head towards the bathroom.

She steps into the small space, closing the door after her and makes the mistake of looking in the mirror. In the harsh light it’s her bruised, terrified face staring back and the pleased hum of her body doesn’t last.

She stays in there a little too long hiding, feeling his eyes on her when she finally returns to bed.

She spends the rest of the night lying on her stomach, head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, fingers painting lazy equations on his chest. She doesn’t speak about her injuries or her dreams, just jerks awake the few times she lowers her guard enough to sleep.

He pretends not to notice.


	3. Chapter 3

Day Three

Jack rolls over to find the bed empty and the sun high in the sky.  It’s a testament to how poorly he’s slept these last three weeks that he could sleep in so late.  Even so, he’s still pretty worn out, remembering Sam’s restless lack of slumber.  He’s always been far too attuned to her moods to sleep through her nightmares.  Last night it was the same, the tension never really leaving her body as she relentlessly fought against giving the dreams a chance to reappear.

She hadn’t slept, so neither had he.

As soon as dawn crept its way over the edge of Sam’s balcony though, Jack had felt her slide out of bed with exaggerated care as if she hadn’t known perfectly well he wasn’t asleep anyway.  He’d let her have her little charade and less than ten minutes later, he heard her escape into the hall, undoubtedly on her way back to that damn desk of hers.

Exhausted, Jack had decided at least one of them should be getting some sleep, but six solid hours later he still feels hung-over.  He wonders when exactly he became so damn soft.

Surviving on minimal sleep has always been a big part of Sam’s skill set, but even she has got to be running on fumes at this point.

With a groan he forces himself out of bed and into the shower.  A while later he reemerges, feeling slightly more human, and heads for the commissary for supplies on his way to Sam’s office, knowing she won’t have eaten.

He drops into a chair in front of her desk, pushing a sandwich towards her.  She picks it up and begins nibbling at it without comment, her eyes still focused on her computer screen.  It feels a bit like those old days when he dropped by her lab and shared a fairly distracted meal with her.  Only this time he’s pretty sure her lack of attention has less to do with distraction than her discomfort with his presence.

They eat in silence for a while, Jack taking the opportunity to observe her.  She looks worse today than the day he got here, no matter what a great job she’s doing trying to hide it. 

“Am I making this worse?” he asks after a while.

She looks up with a frown. “What?”

“Being here,” he clarifies.  “I’m making this harder for you.”

She looks like she wants to deny it, but can’t quite bring herself to verbalize the lie. 

“Well, you’re certainly making it harder to hide,” she eventually admits. 

He tilts his head to the side.  “I dunno, Carter, you seem to be doing a pretty good job of it.”

She flinches, obviously taking the observation as a criticism.  Maybe she’s gotten a little too used to being surrounded by people unwilling to call her bluff.

He slides an apple across the desk towards her.  “You do know it’s okay to ask me to leave, right?”

She’s automatically reached for the offered apple, but at his words bypasses it to grab his arm with a suddenness that seems to startle even her.  She stares at her hand clenched around his wrist, knuckles white from the pressure, both of them stuck half-leaning awkwardly over the desk.

Her eyes dart to his face before she takes a deep breath and lets go.  On her way back down to her seat, she pauses to take the apple. 

“I’d like it if you stayed a while longer,” she says, her tone carefully controlled as if to counter the telling desperation of her action.  “If you want to.”

Jack sits back, watching her take a rather self-conscious bite of her sandwich.  “I want to,” he confirms.

“Good,” she says. 

Frankly, he’s a bit surprised by her obvious relief.  But then again, that’s Sam, always surprising him when he least expects it.

“This just doesn’t…feel like I thought it would,” she admits.  “Having this happen to me while I’m the one in charge.  I just can’t get away from any of it for even a moment.”

He gets that.  At least as the SGC, they’d been able to go home, to get away even if it was only a matter of miles.  Where is she supposed to go here?  There isn’t a single space in this city where she’s not Colonel Carter, commander.  That has to be exhausting.

It probably also means there isn’t a single person here she can honestly share her experience with, not without fear of appearing weak.  No one but him, that is, but she doesn’t seem to have any intention of taking advantage of that.

“You can’t just ignore it.”  _Or me_ , he silently tacks on.  She has to find a way to deal with this eventually.

She gives him sardonic look he knows he deserves.  He’s not exactly the poster boy for dealing with things.

He leans back in his chair, lifting his hands behind his head.  “‘Do as I say, not as I do’ isn’t going to cut it, huh?”

“No,” she says with a wan smile. “But points for trying.”

“Remind me, what exactly do these points get me?”

She smiles enigmatically, but before she gets the chance to answer, the giant swoosh of an incoming wormhole grabs her attention.  She glances at her watch as she gets up from her chair.  “That should be a team returning from M1K-439.  Major Lewis went to relieve them a while ago.”

Sure enough, only moments after the shield drops, McKay and half a dozen other assorted personnel step through.

Jack follows Sam out of her office and down the stairs to where Sheppard is waiting, speaking to the military leader of the arriving team. 

“Nothing much to report, sir,” the major is saying as they approach.  “Just a whole lot of mud.”

Everyone’s gaze drops to the major’s caked boots.

Looking around the gate room floor, Jack briefly wonders whose job it will be to clean up the aforementioned mud now tracked across the floor.  Maybe these fancy Ancient digs have self-polishing floors.

He doesn’t get a chance to ask, because McKay and another scientist appear at Sam’s side.

“I finally managed to get the ship’s main power back online,” McKay announces without preamble, “but now the linguists are all just sitting around scratching their collective heads.” 

The woman next to him rolls her eyes, muttering something that sounds like French under her breath before turning her attention to Sam.  “The Valedin’s written language is fairly obscure, though we believe there may be some similarity to the Genii system.”

“In other words,” McKay interrupts, “they don’t have a clue.”

The beleaguered linguist simply looks over at Sam, who nods at her in response.  “Thank you, Dr. Durand.  Let me know when you have something.”

Dr. Durand rather gratefully abandons the gate room.

McKay hands off his weapons, turning to Sam as if the linguist had never interrupted him.  “I figured I would be more helpful here analyzing some of these power readings I recovered when I got the ship up and running.” 

He pauses as if waiting for praise, but Sam doesn’t say anything, just crosses her arms and waits for him to get to his point. 

“The ship actually has a pretty fascinating configuration.  Completely primitive by Lantian standards, of course, but rather innovative nonetheless,” he says, holding out his data pad to her.

Pinching the bridge of her nose as if suffering from a headache, Sam waves McKay off.  “I look forward to reading your report.  Later,” she says without any of her usual curiosity.  “Let me know the moment you find anything that might help Lorne.”

With that, she turns and disappears back up the stairs.

McKay watches her walk away.  “She’s not really okay, is she?” he asks of no one in particular.  Not waiting for an answer, he focuses his attention back on his data pad and hustles out of the room.

Sheppard’s looking at Jack in askance, but all he can do is shrug.  He doesn’t follow after Sam either, recognizing the particular angle to the set of her shoulders that doesn’t bode well for her patience.

“So,” Jack says, clapping his hands together.  “What do you do around here to keep yourself entertained while the brain trust do their thing?”

Sheppard slides him a shit-eating grin.  “I’m sure Ronon would be happy to spar with you, sir.”

Jack’s eyes narrow.  “Remind me, Sheppard.  Didn’t I fire you?”

Sheppard clears his throat, smile disappearing as rapidly as it had appeared.  “Video golf?” he asks, gesturing towards a bank of computers in the control room.

“Sure, why not?”  It’s still better than paperwork.  He thinks that’s at least one thing he and Sheppard can agree on.

They enjoy less than an hour of peace before McKay comes careening up to them, waving his data pad around.  “Not good!” he declares.

His panicked tone carries loudly through the control room, Sam already heading their way before Jack even manages to get out of his chair.

“Use your words, Rodney,” Sheppard says when McKay continues to mutely poke at his machine in obvious alarm.

“Oh, yes,” he says, looking up at them all.  “I think I figured out what this is.  The power spike.”  He makes a hand sign that is probably supposed to mean something, but Jack doesn’t think he’s imagining everyone else’s mystified expressions.

“What?” Jack snaps, unable to handle the man’s agitated dance any longer.  Sam slides him a look and he shrugs apologetically.

“Homing beacon,” McKay finally spits out.

There’s a moment of silence while the words sink in and then Sheppard quite succinctly says, “Oh, shit.”

McKay gestures broadly at Sheppard.  “Exactly my point.  Not good.”

Sam is already moving though, leaning over a technician’s shoulder looking at his display. “John,” she says, without looking up, “get your team geared and grab some marines.  I need you to get those scientists back here now in case the Valedin decide they want their ship back.”

Sheppard’s already halfway out the door.  “I’m on it!” he calls back over his shoulder.

“Dial the gate,” Sam orders the technician.

The entire room has gone from casual alertness to ordered action in the blink of an eye, everyone efficiently doing their jobs while Jack does his best to just stay out of the way.

The wormhole whooshes to life and Sam nods to the technician.

“The line is open,” he confirms.

Sam taps her comm. “Major Lewis, this is Atlantis Command.  Please come in.”

There’s the heavy thud of weapons’ fire and the garbled sound of a voice shouting orders.  “Atlantis Command, this is Lewis.  We are under fire.  Request back up immediately.”

“Understood,” Sam says.  “What is your position?”

“We are set up at 2 o’clock behind the damaged ship.  The Valedin have taken up position between us and the gate,” he says as Sheppard reappears with his small force of seven men.

“How many?” Sam asks, her voice calm.

“I don’t know…at least a dozen.”

Sam glances at Sheppard and without a word he jogs back out of the room, Ronon right on his heels.  Not much time passes before the roof retracts, a puddle jumper dropping down in front of the gate.

“They have two ships,” Major Lewis continues, “but have chosen to engage us on ground.”

The Valedins were probably ordered to return with their prisoners intact if possible.  More bodies for the lab.  Jack looks to Sam for any sign that she’s made the connection, but her face is unreadable.

“Hold on, Major,” she says. “We have a ship on route.  Take cover and hang on.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they hear, another round of garbled shouts in the background.

The puddle jumper pushes through the wormhole, the six marines remaining behind, waiting for the signal to follow.  Five minutes later the call comes back from Sheppard and Sam nods to the marines.

She watches them depart, her hand twitching against her thigh as if yearning for a P-90.

Jack doesn’t miss the movement.  “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“What does?” she asks, not looking at him.

“Having to stay behind.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, her hands flattening against her legs.  “I wish that had anything to do with it.”

Jack looks at her in surprise, the thread of rage in her voice catching him off-guard.

They wait for the all clear in silence.

*     *    *

A few hours later, everyone is safe back on Atlantis with whatever parts of the ships they had been able to salvage and fit through the gate.  Luckily there were only a few minor injuries among the ambushed team, mostly thanks to their enemy’s obsession with taking prisoners.

In the end, it’s the three surviving Valedins who have ended up in Atlantis’ brig and it’s Sam’s job to decide what to do with them.  She has more than a few tempting ideas.  Which is exactly why she is standing in the observation room watching John and Ronon interrogate the first of the prisoners rather than being in there herself.

Though they were able to recover quite a bit of data from the ships, the linguists are moving very slow with the translations.  Even the smallest chance that any of these Valedins might be able to help them far out weighs the risk of bringing them here.  Unfortunately they have not proven particularly cooperative.  So far not even Ronon’s most overblown posturing seems to have fazed the prisoner.

It’s tempting to try more persuasive tactics, but so far John has been meticulous, brushing up against the line a few times, but never crossing it.  She knew he would be.

Somewhere in the middle of the second set, Jack wanders in to join her, watching in silence for a while.  
   
“You aren’t doing the interrogations yourself,” he says, more observation than question.

There is absolutely nothing accusatory in his tone, but she still feels tension squeeze along her spine.  “No,” she confirms.

“Why not?”

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest.  He knows perfectly well why not, he just wants to make her say it.

“Because I don’t trust myself not to break the rules.” 

Her hands clench and she can almost imagine the Valedin’s bones under her fingers.  It’s a dangerous dance, keeping her rage under control.  She fears it will only take one brief moment’s lapse to lose it completely, thinks Jack is more than aware of that and yet still insists on poking at it. 

She has way too many responsibilities right now to allow her weakness free rein.  Forcing herself to relax her hands, she smoothes them self-consciously down the front of her uniform.

“What exactly happened out there, Sam?”

She looks over to find him watching her closely, that ever-present concern roiling right under the surface and for a moment she’s almost tempted to tell him.  He would understand; she’s seen him in a mad rage more than once because of the things done to those under his command. 

Maybe it’s the understanding she doesn’t want.  Not yet.

They stare at each other, but before Sam can force any words to the surface, her comm chirps, Dr. Keller’s voice in her ear. 

“Yes, Dr. Keller?” Sam asks, turning slightly away as she listens to the doctor’s words.  “Ok, I’ll be right there.”

She thinks she might hear Jack sigh, but by the time she turns back to him his face is carefully neutral.

“Lorne is awake,” she explains. 

“Then you’d better go,” he says.

She feels like she is failing some unspoken test, but it doesn’t stop her from slipping out of the room and away from the unanswered question. 

He doesn’t follow.

Sam enters the infirmary to see Lorne propped up in one of the beds, Teyla speaking to him quietly off to one side.  Teyla catches Sam’s eye, smiling at her, but Sam doesn’t pause, just continues on to Keller’s office after a brief nod of acknowledgement.

“He looks better,” Sam says, glancing back towards Lorne and Teyla, their voices now cut off by the glass walls.

“His viral load is finally leveling off,” Keller confirms, coming up to stand by Sam’s side.

Sam nods. It had been the same with Reed that last morning.  “He’s made it through.”

“I think so.”

“So,” Sam says, turning back to Keller. “Any ideas yet about what they were trying to do?”

“I have a theory,” she says, moving back behind her desk and shifting through a stack of files.  “What was the first thing they did to Reed when it became clear he would live?  They let a Wraith feed on him.  Everything you described makes it sound like they were sticklers for a clean scientific process.  So why mess it up with the Wraith?”

“They were testing him,” Sam says, the significance finally clicking in place.  “They wanted to see how the Wraith would react to him.”

Keller nods. “I think they’re trying to create an artificial immunity to the Wraith, something apparently found naturally in a tiny fraction of the human population of Pegasus.”

“They were trying to manipulate their genetic code,” Sam surmises.  “That’s what the injections were about.”

“Yes.  In many ways it’s a much more primitive version of the ATA gene therapy we use.  Only, they obviously have some major flaws still in their version.”

“By major flaws are you referring to the fact that it didn’t work, or that it kills about half the subjects?” Sam asks before she can stop herself.

Keller looks away, no doubt discomforted by her icy tone. 

Sam takes a moment to calm herself, pacing the few steps the small space allows her.   “And what about Lorne?  Did it work?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

Keller leaves unspoken that there is only one definitive test to know for sure.  Sam rubs her fingers across her eyes, fighting off an image of Reed’s terrified face, frozen in the papery husk of his body.

When she looks up again, Lorne is staring across the room at her, his eyes latching onto her and holding with an expression she does her best not to define. 

She just wants him to look away.

 _It takes three weeks for the night guard’s stupidity to finally overwhelm his caution, but even then Sam knows it has come far too late.  There are already three bodies piled somewhere in the depths of this laboratory.  Three too many._

 _Over the jangle of the keys as the man opens her cell, she can make out the low rasp that is Lorne’s breathing. He might become four._

 _This is her only chance._

 _Sam lays still, her back to the door, her eyes firmly fixed on the wall in front of her.  She feels the first brush of the guard’s hand across her hip and bites down hard on her tongue, refusing to allow any outward reaction.  The touch becomes bolder, moving all the way down from waist to foot, some small last sliver of his caution seeking to test her submission._

 _She is still._

 _His fingers slide under the edge of her shirt and there is a sound of inarticulate protest from the next cell, unheard or simply unheeded by the guard. But Sam hears it, registers the weight of someone watching them._

 _She shoves the thought away._

 _He rolls her onto her back and her complete lack of resistance pulls him into his second stupid mistake as he removes her manacles to get better access.  Her hands now free, he stops, a moment of hesitation, but she doesn’t move, still staring at some point in the ceiling.  She waits quietly until she feels the heat of his breath against her face, until his distraction allows her hand to move slowly across the edge of the cot, inching towards the taser strapped to his thigh._

 _His scream is loud in her ear when she presses the stream of current against the source of his stupidity.  She’s on her feet before he can recover, grabbing his baton as he rolls uselessly on the floor, silencing him with one brutal hit across the back of his head._

 _She pauses a moment, the disgust of his touch still fresh in her mind and she fights the urge to hit him again.  If she starts, she may not be able to stop._

 _“Colonel,” a rough voice says when she stands there a little too long._

 _She flinches at the sound of her rank, not quite able to meet Lorne’s gaze, but pushes back into motion, grabbing the keys and leaving her cell behind._

 _Three weeks too late._

“Sam?” Keller says, obviously not for the first time, her hand insistent on Sam’s arm.  Lorne is still staring at her, now pushed up on one elbow as if considering getting up, only Teyla’s hand on his arm holding him in place.

Keller’s hand squeezes again and somehow Sam manages not to flinch away from the touch, fighting off the flashback and turning her back on Lorne.

“I’m fine,” she says as if nothing has happened, her voice the picture of control.

Keller doesn’t contradict her, just watches her with too much intensity for comfort as her breathing finally evens out again.  Only then does Keller drop her hold, hesitating slightly before pulling a small envelope out of her pocket and holding it out.

Sam takes it from her hand, cracks it open to see a single pill nestled inside.

“You’re not going to be of much use to any of us if you don’t get some sleep,” Keller explains.

“Did General O’Neill--?”

“No,” Keller denies with a shake her head.  “It’s my job to pay attention to this stuff, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Sam says, slipping the envelope in her pocket.

Keller must be able to see she has no intention of taking it, sighing softly.  “It’s not a weakness,” she says.

That’s easy for her to say, she doesn’t have an entire city looking to her, watching and waiting for her to fall apart.

“Thank you, doctor,” Sam says, slipping out of the infirmary without even glancing in Lorne’s direction.

By the time she gets back to her room that night, Jack is already in bed.  She knows he’s not sleeping because she can feel his eyes on her as she peels off her uniform, dropping it piece by piece into a careless pile on the floor.  Her fingers stumble over Keller’s envelope and she pulls it out of the pocket, hefting the insubstantial weight in her hand.  She leaves it unopened on the dresser as she climbs into bed. 

Jack reaches for her without comment, but she can feel the slightest edge of his hesitation, as if unsure if she will even allow him the right to comfort her in the safety of darkness.  She wastes no time sliding across the space, plastering herself up against his side, beyond relieved when his arms tighten around her, when he lets her pull his mouth down to hers.

She lets herself believe, for a while, that it will be enough.

But whatever relief she finds doesn’t last and it’s not long until the dreams drive her back out of his arms.  She sits at her vanity for ten minutes staring at the single pill, her entire being resisting the idea no matter how logical it is.  Her eyes lift to her face in the mirror, the dark shadows that mar her skin, the exhaustion etched into every plane.

“It’s not a weakness,” she whispers to the reflection.

She wishes she believed that.

In one quick motion, she takes the pill, swallowing hard before she can think about it, wanting to gag on the rough edge as it slides down her throat.  Returning to bed, she buries her face in the curve of his neck and waits for the drug to take hold.

The pill does its job and keeps the dreams away, but she still wakes up exhausted, Jack’s steady gaze burning a hole in her skin.


	4. Chapter 4

Day Four

Rodney sits at a table partially obscured by a large potted plant, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth without really tasting it.  His eyes are intent on Sam, who sits at a small table next to the window, O’Neill across from her.

They aren’t speaking, their heads lowered to their meals, though every once and a while O’Neill adds something to her tray.  Rodney watches them with no small amount of annoyance, wondering why Sam doesn’t seem offended by the general’s overbearing behavior. 

“Rodney.”

He starts at the unexpected intrusion, his spoon still halfway to his mouth, swearing as oatmeal splatters on the front of his jacket.  Looking up, he finds Jennifer and Teyla watching him closely, neither bothering to hide their amusement.

“What are you doing hiding over here?” Jennifer asks, shoving the plant back towards the wall and plopping her breakfast down on the table.

Rodney sighs, dabbing at his front with agitation.  “Yes, I’d _love_ some company, thanks for asking.”

Jennifer ignores him and claims one of the vacant chairs, not seeming to care in the slightest that she’s not welcome.

Of their own accord, Rodney’s eyes dart back to Sam, who is now staring out the window with a cup of coffee cradled between her hands.

“Is there a reason you are spying on Colonel Carter?” Teyla asks.

Rodney drags his eyes back to his companions.  “I’m not!” he denies.

Teyla just gifts him with one of her patented ‘You cannot fool me, Earthling’ looks.  “She will be fine, Rodney.”

“How can you say that?” he sputters.  Even Rodney, self-absorbed as he is sometimes, can see she looks terrible.  He still remembers the way Sam hadn’t even been remotely interested in his report yesterday.  

“Give her time.”

Yeah, because patience has always been Rodney’s strong suit.  “Shouldn’t we be…I don’t know, _doing_ something?”

“Like what?” Jennifer asks.

“I don’t know. You’re the doctor!”

“You know I can’t discuss her medical care, Rodney.”

He dismisses her argument with a brisk wave.  “It doesn’t take a doctor to notice she’s getting worse, not better.”

“There is nothing we can do but offer her our support and give her time to heal,” Teyla says.  Rodney doesn’t think this is the time for new age wisdom.

“I bet it’s his fault,” he grumbles.

Jennifer and Teyla share a look.

“Are you referring to General O’Neill?” Teyla asks.

“It’s weird, right?” Rodney says.

“What?”

“Them,” he says with a jut of his chin towards Sam and O’Neill. “Together.”

Teyla’s lips press into a thin line as if she’s uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has veered in.  “They served together for a great deal of time,” she comments diplomatically.

“So what?”

“So…it is not entirely unheard of for close bonds to develop in such situations.”

Rodney rolls his eyes.  “We’ve been on the same team now, for what, four years?”

Teyla raises her eyebrows.  “Are you saying you have developed feelings for me, Rodney?”

He looks up at her in alarm, but she has that evil gleam in her eye and Jennifer not-so-subtly snorts into her coffee cup.

“Oh, ha ha,” he complains, stirring his oatmeal in agitation and returning his attention to the couple on the other side of the room.

Sam is still staring out the window, but O’Neill is talking to her, his words obscured by the distance between the two tables.  She looks undeniably tense, apparently not liking what he’s saying, but then his hand reaches out, fingers brushing along her elbow and she seems to deflate, looking over at O’Neill with something Rodney is hard pressed to define.  She sets her cup down though, her own hand briefly meeting O’Neill’s halfway across the table.

Rodney looks away to find he hasn’t been the only one watching the exchange.

“He doesn’t seem her type,” he says, but even he can hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

Jennifer smiles, something insufferably smug in the curve of her lips like she has a juicy secret.  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Teyla shoots her a look of interest, but Jennifer refuses to elaborate, smoothly turning the conversation to Athosian birthing traditions.

If Rodney’s appetite hadn’t already been threatened by his observations of Sam, that change in topic certainly finishes it off.

He sighs, shoving his oatmeal away.

*     *     *

Ronon has rarely ever met a culture quite as obsessed with briefings and meetings as the Earthers.  It’s no wonder Sheppard is constantly complaining about reports and memos.  As far as Ronon can tell, nothing on Atlantis can be decided without a committee.  He’s heard tales of the Commissary Meals Committee that surpass even the Wraith for nightmarish imagery.  Who knew people could care so much about how their potatoes are prepared?

Not that Ronon particularly minds the rare meeting he’s asked to attend, especially since Colonel Carter has made it clear from the beginning that she is actually interested in his opinion as much as anyone’s.  Plus, she’s usually pretty good at limiting the useless filler, not to mention keeping McKay from boring them unnecessarily.

Though, in today’s meeting she’s been uncharacteristically quiet.  The topic is the Valedin and what little they have managed to learn about them.   Even stranger than her inattention is the presence of O’Neill, who has little to no connection to the topic at all.

He’s conspicuous for his civilian Earth clothing and the rather obvious positioning of his chair outside the circle of others around the table, as if trying to make the unofficial nature of his presence as clear as possible.  Ronon knows he wouldn’t even be in the meeting without an explicit invitation from Colonel Carter, and that’s enough for him. 

Of course, Woolsey often claimed a similar position of non-interference too, which usually lasted just as long as it took for him to seriously disagree with one of her decisions.

Keller started off the meeting earlier with the news that Lorne is improving and has probably escaped any permanent damage at the hands of the Valedin’s experiments.  Ronon isn’t sure that’s necessarily the kindness it seems.  Being the only survivor has major drawbacks. 

For the last twenty minutes it’s been McKay rambling about the vastness of the Valedin territory according to the star charts behind him, and their advanced, but in no way superior to the Ancients, technology.  Ronon has been listening to less and less as McKay spirals into more and more complex terminology.

Ronon glances in the colonel’s direction again, as this is usually the point she jumps in, but she still seems pretty much uncaring that McKay is trying to bore them to death.  In desperation, Ronon bumps against Sheppard’s elbow, knocking it from the arm of his chair and almost planting the semi-comatose man’s face into the table in front of him. 

Sheppard glares at him, but Ronon just gestures at McKay.

Sighing, Sheppard rolls his shoulders and waits for a small break in McKay’s speech.  “So what you’re saying,” he interjects quickly when McKay finally takes a breath, “is that the Valedin are formidable, but not unbeatable.”

McKay’s brow creases in annoyance at being interrupted.  “If you insist on simplifying it…”

“I do,” Sheppard says, giving McKay his best ‘get on with it’ look.

McKay sighs.  “Then yes.”

“So it may be possible to rescue the Yorell children,” Sheppard says, turning to Colonel Carter.

“Assuming there are any left,” Ronon amends.  He isn’t quite as ready to be charitable towards the Yorell, blackmail or not.  Plus, they all know that by this point, those kids are more than likely dead anyway.  “I say we just take out the entire laboratory.”

Colonel Carter’s eyes latch onto him, looking more alert than she has for most of the meeting. 

“You’re talking about open war,” she says. 

He can’t quite make out her tone, but he doesn’t get the impression she’s really against the idea, all things said.  He doesn’t blame her.

“So?” he says with a shrug.

“What, two unstoppable enemies isn’t enough of a challenge for you?” McKay sputters.

“We didn’t start this,” Ronon points out, his finger jabbing at the tabletop.  “They did.”

“We can’t make war on these people,” Teyla says, calmly cutting across the argument.  “Not without exposing the countless worlds they protect to the Wraith.”

Her voice is firm, even though her expression betrays that the words are bitter to her.  Ronon wonders if she is more upset that these people might get away with murder or that they’ve proven to have nothing to do with the Athosian’s disappearance.

“How can you know they actually protect anyone?” Ronon counters.

“We can’t.  But if there is even the slightest chance…”

The colonel has been quiet during the exchange, her hands unnaturally still on the table in front of her.  Her eyes dart to Sheppard and he shrugs.

“As much as I’d love to burn these people to the ground, Teyla’s right,” he says, gesturing to the star chart.  “We can’t protect those people, but the Valedin may be able to.”

Colonel Carter looks away, but not before Ronon catches the spark of anger in her eyes.

“And who’s going to protect them from the Valedin?” Ronon asks.

“We can’t always save everyone,” Sheppard says, sliding him a look akin to a warning.

Ronon shrugs, leaning back in his chair. 

“No, we can’t always save everyone,” the colonel repeats, her voice tight.  “Do you think there is anything else to be learned from the prisoners?”

Sheppard glances at Ronon.  The prisoners had been less than forthcoming during the interrogations.  Ronon isn’t completely convinced they actually knew anything of use to begin with.  He suspects these particular men are valued more for their brawn than their brains.  They probably have no secrets to spill.

“I really doubt it,” Sheppard says with a shrug.

“We’ve gotten all we’re going to get,” Ronon confirms.

Meaning it’s time for the colonel to decide what to do with them once and for all. 

Revenge is a seductive thing, he knows.  The lure of open war is probably hard for her to deny, but he sees her eyes dart towards the star chart, the decision more or less making itself.

Looking resigned, as if she knows there is only one thing left to do no matter how distasteful she finds it, she flips her file shut.  “Fine.  The prisoners will be released and we will hold off on any action against the Valedin.  For now.”

Her eyes dart to O’Neill as if waiting for disagreement, but the man’s face remains as inscrutable as ever.

“Rodney,” she continues. “Do we have a way to contact the Valedin without giving away our position?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking a bit surprised by the request.  “Their ships use subspace for communications, but without an imbedded tag, it’s impossible to trace the source of a transmission.”

She nods along as if any of that actually makes sense.  “How long to set that up?”

“I’ll need a few hours,” Rodney says.

“Okay,” she says, pushing up from her chair and signaling the end of the meeting.  “Let me know when it’s ready.”

Ronon isn’t the only one watching her closely as she leaves.

*     *     *

Rodney has set up a cart with salvaged bits of the Valedin ship’s communications systems jerry rigged to a combination of Ancient and Earth technologies.  It isn’t pretty, but Sam believes him when he assures her it will work.

“The line is secure?” she asks.

“Yes, completely,” he says.  “No way these guys trace it.”

Sam knows Rodney can grate on people, but she’s come to find way more comfort in his overbearing arrogance than she would have suspected.  “Open the channel.”

A young Valedin technician appears on the other end.  “Ident, please,” he says without looking up at the screen as if he does this a thousand times a day.

“We don’t have one,” Sam says evenly.

The kid looks up in surprise at the sound of her voice, his eyes widening and posture straightening.

“I’m Colonel Carter of Atlantis and I’d like to speak to your leader.”

The kid nods his head a couple of times, his eyes darting to the side. “Sure,” he eventually says, the screen going blank.

“What, no muzak while we’re on hold?” John asks.

Sam manages a wry grin at his attempt to break the tense atmosphere.  Her eyes dart to Jack where he stands well off the to side, leaning against a railing.  There is a flicker of light on the screen and she turns her attention back to it.

She isn’t ready for Tristis’s face to appear.  She really should have been.

 _He has a way of looking at her as if she’s not quite human, asking his questions with a toneless, bored voice, seemingly uncaring if she gives him any information.  Maybe because he takes greater pleasure in her silence._

 _It’s only then when he tries to loosen her tongue with force that any sort of life takes up residence in his frigid eyes._

 _She reminds herself that the lash is a tool used only by bullies, by people not quite as certain in their superiority as they claim, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t find any uncertainty in the sharp crack of the leather against her back._

“Samantha, it’s good to see you again,” he says as if she is an old friend and not his victim.

Sam’s hand has tightened on the back of Chuck’s chair and that firm grip is the only thing keeping her from stepping back away as Tristis’s voice grates across her skin.  It feels as if every last drop of blood has abandoned her face, her throat closing tightly on any words she might force to the surface.

“You look well,” he continues when she doesn’t answer.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see John send her a look of concern.  When she just continues to stare silently, he takes control of the conversation.

“We have some of your men,” John says, casually stepping half in front of Sam as if to shield her from Tristis.

“I see,” he says with a smirk, his eyes not leaving Sam.  “I imagine you haven’t found them to be very useful prisoners.”  Sam can’t help but think about Tristis’s definition of ‘useful’.  “I’m afraid they are of no particular value to me if you are looking for a ransom of some kind.”

“We don’t want anything from you,” John says, his voice going hard.  “We’re sending your men to the Yorrel planet.  You can retrieve them there.”

Tristis looks suspicious. “And why would you do that?”

“Contrary to your own practices, we don’t murder and torture members of other races,” John snaps, losing a bit of his control.

“How enlightened of you.”

Something in that familiar mocking tone finally breaks Sam’s immobility, shattering the choking hold on her throat, bringing her body back under her control.  She steps around John, leaning into the screen.

“One last thing,” she bites out, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.  “Tell your leaders…tell them I said this isn’t over.  That you had better all pray that we don’t defeat the Wraith anytime soon, because the moment we do…”  She pauses, letting the silence draw long between them.  “Time’s up.”

There is the tiniest flash of unease on Tristis’s face before he covers it with a leer.  “It would be my pleasure to spend more time with you, Samantha.”

The innuendo falls heavily in the room, but Sam refuses to betray even a flicker of distaste.  Turning slightly to Rodney, she draws her hand sharply across her throat, and Tristis’s face disappears as he severs communications.

She stands there a moment in the resounding silence, her breath swelling painfully in her chest with everyone’s eyes on her and it’s just too damn much.

“Get those men the hell out of my city, Sheppard,” she orders before striding down the stairs and ducking into the nearest hallway.

She can just make out John’s voice cutting across the heavy silence reigning in the control room.  “You heard the Colonel.  Dial it up.”

Sam’s not sure she can make it all the way back to her quarters, far too many speculative eyes between here and there and she only has one or two terribly worn threads left holding everything in check.

She barely slips into the safety of her bathroom before the bile climbing her throat refuses to be contained any longer.  Falling to her knees, she heaves painfully, every restrained memory and flash of feeling burning its way up her throat.

She’s so busy trying to turn her stomach inside out that she doesn’t register Jack is there until his cool hands are against her neck, pulling her hair back from her face.  He gives her a damp cloth and she presses it to her face, collapsing back against the nearest wall.

“Sam,” he says.  “Did he…”

“No,” she denies, shaking her head. Tristis may have done many things to her, but there were some lines that not even he crossed.

Jack still looks uncertain and she knows that’s why Tristis made the innuendo in the first place, hoping to leave any last splinter in place.  Bastard. 

But Jack’s uncertainty has as much to do with her own stubborn refusal to let him in, to give him even the vaguest explanation of what she’d been through.  Reading a report isn’t the same.

“He didn’t,” she repeats, reaching for his hand and looking him straight in the eye. 

He considers her for a long moment.  Nodding his understanding, he slides down the wall next to her in the tiny space. 

“I shouldn’t have left you wondering,” she says.

“I know it’s not easy to talk about.”

She shrugs, knowing that’s far from a good excuse.  “There was one guard who tried,” she admits after a moment.  “That’s how I escaped.”

She can feel the tension in Jack’s shoulder against hers.

“He didn’t get anywhere,” she says.  “And I may have ruined any future chances for him to ever again.”

“Good,” Jack says, his tone matching the feral satisfaction that has slipped unconsciously into hers.

“It was Tristis who…,” her voice cracks, the undeniable lava of rage crawling back up her throat.  “I wanted to kill him.  God, I still do.  Not for what he did to me, but because he made me sit there and watch him murder my people right in front of me.” 

She looks down at her hands where they tremble with fury against her lap.  For the life of her, she can’t make them stop.

“There is this part of me that doesn’t give a damn how many innocent people might be exposed to the Wraith, if only it could the mean the end of these people.  And if it had somehow been Tristis down there in the brig…”

“You would have made exactly the same decision you did,” Jack says, his steady hands covering hers. 

She closes her eyes against his absolute certainty in her.  He hadn’t been there, he hadn’t seen. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because you aren’t like them.  You’re smart enough to know your own limits and when to listen to the voices of reason around you.  I know it wasn’t easy, but in the end you still decided to protect those people, no matter how much it cost you personally.  You decided to let someone less invested do the interrogations.  It doesn’t matter what you felt, only what you did.”

She lowers her head to his shoulder and he puts his arm around her.  They hold that awkward position in her cramped bathroom for a long time before she finally finds her voice again.

“The Yorrel…,” she says, pulling his free hand between hers, her fingers tracing along his palm.  “They live on one of those forest planets, the kind that can steal your breath away with its fall colors.  Orange and yellow and fire red.  It felt so nice to get off-world again.  The village was abnormally quiet, though.  That should have been our first clue…”

She speaks until every moment is spilled out, every confession and fear, every injury sustained.  He listens quietly the entire time even though she can feel the thrum of barely contained emotions right under his surface.  He doesn’t interrupt though, and she’s grateful.

When she’s finally done, heavy silence falling between them, he pushes off the ground, reaching down to pull her up to her feet.  He holds her there a moment, his jaw clenched. 

“I should have been here,” he says.

It’s a ridiculous statement, but it’s one she understands.  She knows well enough that it has nothing to do with a lack of faith in her abilities.  They’ve spent a decade looking out for each other and that protectiveness hadn’t stopped when it ceased to be his job.  But he also knows that their lives are based on uncertainty and have been for as long as they’ve known each other. 

“There’s no way you could have known this was going to happen, Jack,” she says.  “You couldn’t have stopped it.” 

He nods, reaching out to touch her face.  “Neither could you.”

She instinctually flinches, wanting to pull back from what he’s trying to tell her, the way he’s twisting her own words back at her, but his thumb is firm under her chin and she’s stuck holding his gaze. 

 _It wasn’t your fault._

Feeling the rise of tears she doesn’t have the strength to fight, she leans into him.

“I’m exhausted,” she whispers.  
   
“Yeah,” he says, his hand dropping down to her shoulder, squeezing lightly.  “Come on.”

Somehow he manages to maneuver her to the bed and she slips under the sheets, feels him climb in behind her, his body curling safely around hers.  His chest is warm and solid against her back, one of his hands draped over her hip and she feels her body finally surrendering, tension leaking away.

“I didn’t think you were really here that first night,” she says, her voice low and thick with fatigue.  “I was pretty sure I had finally lost it completely.”

They both know she never would have asked him to come.

“Sleep,” he says, his lips warm against the back of her neck.

She closes her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Day Five

Jack wakes to find Sam still asleep next to him, her back illuminated by the creep of early morning light.  They’d climbed into bed well before sunset and her sleep had only been disturbed two or three times from anything resembling a nightmare.  Leaning up slightly, he confirms that they’ve now been cocooned in this bed for over twelve hours.  Clearly they both needed the rest.

He settles back against his pillow, watching the gentle rise and fall of her back with each steady breath.

Whatever miracle drug Keller has been using is working.  It’s only been five days and the gashes visible around the edge of her tank top are now little more than pink lines of new skin crisscrossing each other.

He still doubts they will ever fade completely.

He’s not sure whether knowing how and when she received each of those marks makes it any easier to see.  It had taken all of his restraint to sit calmly by and listen to her recite each and every horrifying thing he hadn’t been able to keep her safe from, things he never could have prepared her for.  It doesn’t matter that she is one of the strongest, most capable people he knows, or that her people have proven to be eccentric, but fiercely loyal.

The sun is well into the sky by the time she shifts, her face pressing into the pillow as she slowly climbs to wakefulness.  She turns to him, her eyes opening slowly as she blinks against the light. 

“Good morning,” she says, tucking one hand up under her cheek, her voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” he echoes.

He can see her taking in his obviously wakeful state, her eyes scrunching up slightly. “Exactly how long have you been lying there staring at me?”

He shrugs one shoulder.  “A while.”

She lifts an eyebrow at him, obviously not expecting him to fess up so easily.  “You should have woken me up.” 

“Nah,” he says, forcibly keeping his eyes from moving to the marks on her back.  “You needed the sleep.”

She glances back at the window and the bright sunlight streaming in.  “Do I even want to know how late it is?”

“Do you have somewhere to be?” he asks, tensing a bit despite himself.  He’s still waiting for a sign that she’s going to retreat from last night’s honesty, to jump out of bed and get back to work.  He tells himself not to take it personally when she does.

Rolling back to look at him, she slides closer and wraps an arm across his stomach.  “No.  Nothing but a meeting later this afternoon.”

“Fun.” 

Something of his thoughts must have leaked into his voice because she hefts up on her elbow, peering down at him.  “What?”

“Nothin’,” he automatically says, knowing it probably isn’t wise to point out that this is usually right about when she suddenly remembers she needs to be elsewhere.

She’s always been too smart for her own good though, and he can see the guilt flash across her face as she understands what it is he’s not saying.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for her waist and tugging until she finally allows him pull her closer.  “None of that.” 

They’d promised long ago that job guilt would not be a part of this relationship.

Her hair falls partially in his face as she settles against his chest, her legs tangling with his.  He tugs playfully at the offending strand.  “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” he says, twining it between his fingers.  “Not that it isn’t incredibly hot.”

She rolls her eyes at him, a small smile tugging at her lips and he’s about to claim victory on the cheer-up-Sam front when she reaches for his face, her own serious once more. 

“I _am_ sorry,” she says.

He begins to protest, but she takes advantage of the moment to lean in and kiss him.  Her mouth is warm and lazy on his and lacks any of the desperation from previous nights.  He thinks this is the way they should wake up every morning.  You know, if they lived in the same galaxy.

He winds his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer.  “You’re just trying to distract me,” he accuses.

He feels her lips curve into a smile against his jaw.  “Is it working?”

He’s about to prove exactly how much it’s working when her stomach very loudly announces its displeasure.  Sure, _now_ she wants to eat.  For the moment, he forces himself to take that as a good sign.

He looks up at her with one eyebrow lifted and she bites her lip.  “Hold that thought?”

“I knew there was a reason I should keep some MREs in here for emergencies.”

“Thank goodness we are not quite that desperate,” he says with a grimace.  MREs were definitely high on his list of things he does not miss about missions.  But certainly lower than not being able to wake up and make out with Sam.  He might have to put that at number one.

“I suppose just staying in bed all day might be a bit overly indulgent,” she says, pressing her face against his neck.

“Clothes, Carter,” he grumbles, trying to push her away, only to be thwarted by his own reluctance.  “Unless you’d like to go to the commissary dressed like that.”

“Wouldn’t that do wonders for my reputation,” she mumbles as she finally rolls away and sits up on the edge of the bed with a stretch.

He gets stuck unabashedly watching the play of muscle under her skin as she moves, which ensures that he’s still paying attention when her posture changes, as if something heavy is pressing down on her.

“Sam?”

She glances back over her shoulder self-consciously.  “I’m thinking I should probably go see Lorne this morning and I’m really not looking forward to it.”

“Yeah,” he says, climbing over the bed to sit next to her.

“I’m just not sure what to say.”

What do you say to someone who has lost their entire team?  It’s a loss neither of them can even begin to understand; though there have been moments here and there that Jack really doesn’t like to think about.  There’s just nothing to say to fix something like that.

“Maybe it’s not really about what you say,” he observes with a shrug.  “Maybe it’s just about showing up.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“Come on,” Jack says, pressing a kiss to her hairline.  “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

She gives him a small smile and lets him pull her to her feet.

*     *     *

Evan is reacquainting himself with his quarters when a soft chime alerts him to a visitor.  It takes him a moment to even place the sound.  It’s been _that_ long since he’s stood here in this space with normal thoughts in his head.

Keller had only this morning finally agreed to let him out of the infirmary, worry still lining her eyes.  He’s not used to someone looking at him as anything more than a specimen.

The door chimes again and he tries to shake free of the fog in his head.  He swipes his hand across the sensor and the door pulls back to reveal a slightly nervous looking Colonel Carter.  Her face is still tinged with yellow from a fading bruise he doesn’t remember her receiving, a data pad clutched in her pale fingers.

Part of him has been waiting for her to show up ever since that day he watched her caught in a flashback, knowing the mere sight of him had been enough to trigger it.  To be honest, he hasn’t been too eager to see her either since they returned. 

He thinks sometimes he might be able to forget if he just never had to look at her again.  But neither of them are the kind of people to hold onto such delusional ideas for long.

Stepping back from the door, he waves for her to come in.  She follows him in and he gestures towards a chair, sitting down on the edge of his bed himself.  She doesn’t take the offered chair, instead shifting slightly from foot to foot.

“How are you?” she asks.

He just looks up at her and she grimaces.

“Right.  Dumb question.”  She takes another few steps into the room, turning around as if taking it in, but he knows she’s just giving herself time to collect herself.

He waits.

“I keep thinking I should have been able to escape earlier,” she says when her face is still mostly turned away from him.  “I should have found a way to get all of us out of there.”

The gaping hole left behind by his team is something Evan can’t even think of yet, too much grief to even process.  The small part of him that may be a little pissed at the colonel for saving him, making him live with this, keeps him from absolving her of something he knows only too well isn’t her fault.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Of all the people here, he’s the one who’s had the chance to see her in action during those glory days of SG-1.  He’d been at the SGC, heard the way people spoke her name.  Had his own ass saved by her along with everyone else more times than he could count.

He still hadn’t been ready to see her in that cage though.  To see Tristis take a lash to her back time after time asking for gate addresses and defenses and technology.  The way her face hadn’t given anything away, her mouth stubbornly shut, never releasing anything more than a heavy grunt or the odd angry tear.

How the closest she ever got to breaking was when she plead for their lives, not her own.

Every inch of pride gone, she’d been on her knees.  “Please,” she said. “Let them go.”

Tristis ran the handle of the lash under her chin, in sick mockery of tenderness.  “All you have to do is give me the address,” he said so softly Evan almost couldn’t hear him.

He watched her consider it for a fraction of a second before turning her face away.  Tristis hadn’t left her cell that day until he finally managed to make her scream.

Evan doesn’t understand what she’s asking of him today, standing there apologizing.

“You saved my life,” is all he can think to say, half fact, half accusation.

“Maybe,” she says with a shrug as if it doesn’t bear discussing.  She finally turns to face him fully, her voice turning brisk and business-like.  “If you feel up to it, we’re having a briefing on what Rodney’s managed to get from the ship this afternoon.  If not, I definitely understand.”

He’s not so much listening to her words anymore as watching the way she won’t quite meet his eyes as she talks.  It’s only then he realizes that she’s ashamed of what he saw her do, what he saw her almost do.

Apparently having said what she came to say, she’s walking out of the room.

“Colonel,” he calls out.

That last night, having already watched every one of his men die, he was thinking he was going to have to watch something horrific on a whole new level.  He thought he’d been hallucinating when she’d first taken that guard down, but knew he never could have conjured that look on her face.

She’s staring at him now, or just past him, having turned back at his call, but he’s having a hard time thinking of a single thing to say to her.  She moves to leave again and he speaks without thinking.

“You didn’t let them break you.”

It’s not really what he wants to say, not enough to explain that he knows perfectly well who the monsters in this scenario are.  It was never her.  He can’t find the words for that, but maybe she hears it anyway because she pauses, the only sign of her unease the clenching of her hands around her data pad, even now refusing to give too much away.  After a long moment, she finally lifts her eyes to his, holding his gaze. 

“Okay,” she says.

She turns and walks out.

*     *     *

The meeting room is once again filled with the usual suspects, Sheppard and Ronon lounging on one side, Keller, Teyla, and Lorne on the other while Rodney paces around in front of a large chart.  Jack is also here again, at her request.  Maybe not completely appropriate, but it’s an impulse Sam hasn’t bothered to deny.  Like last time, he’s dragged his chair about as far out of the way as possible without actually leaving the room.

If Sam had somehow hoped he would keep her from making any crappy decisions, she knows now she’d miscalculated.  That isn’t why he’s here.  Not that willingly listening to Rodney ramble doesn’t say a lot about his willingness to be supportive. 

Jack lifts an eyebrow at her and it’s only then she realizes she’s been staring.  She gives him a small smile and drops her face to the folder in front of her, forcing herself to zero back in on Rodney’s words.  He’s been talking about the recovered files the linguists finally managed to translate, most proving what Sam already suspected: the ship she’d stolen had indeed been a medical transport.

In addition, the files have confirmed Keller’s hypothesis as to the nature of the experiments being run by the Valedin.  They are definitely trying to create an immunity to the Wraith.  The subject is not particular pleasant for Sam to listen to, but more than anything, it’s Rodney’s increasingly excited tone as he discusses the research in detail that originally derailed her attention.  Something about the curious gleam in his eye makes her especially aware of Lorne only two seats down and the burning sensation low in her stomach.

“The potential in this research is clear,” Rodney is saying.  “It’s ground breaking, really.  There are even carefully documented files for hundreds of subjects…”

Sam bites down on the inside of her lip.  He seems to have forgotten he is talking about people, not Petri dishes.

The abnormally loud slap of someone snapping a folder shut causes Rodney to stumble in his recital.  Everyone turns to look at Keller, her hands still spread across the folder in front of her.

“We can’t use this research,” she announces, shoving the file away from her as if something contaminated.

 _Oh, thank God_ , Sam thinks, her fingers tightening on the papers in front of her.

“Are you crazy?” Rodney exclaims.

Keller turns in her chair to look at him.  “In case you’ve somehow managed to forget, may I remind you that they used thousands of innocent people like lab rats to get this information?”

Rodney doesn’t seem particularly fussed by that fact.  “What, so we should just throw it away and let thousands more innocent people get added to the all you can eat Wraith buffet instead?”

He’s looking around the room for support, but Sam makes no attempt to stifle the unfolding discussion. 

“Using this makes us no better than them,” Teyla observes from next to Keller.  “No matter our intentions.”

“Hey, morality is great,” Ronon says, “but it doesn’t keep the Wraith from killing you.  Trust me.”

“Exactly,” Rodney agrees, dropping into the empty seat next to Ronon.  “We can use this information to get rid of the Wraith once and for all, and _then_ deal with the Valedins.”

“And the people they killed?” Keller asks. “What about them?”

Rodney winces, but continues unapologetically forward.  “Well, excuse me for saying this, but they’re already dead.  There’s not much we can do for them.”

“If it had been you in that cell, McKay, I think you’d feel differently.”

It’s the first Lorne has spoken since this briefing began and everyone falls silent, Rodney shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“What do you believe we should do, Evan?” Teyla asks.

He glances quickly in Sam’s direction, maybe looking for some signal from her, but she just stares back, needing to hear what he has to say more than anyone.  They had been his men, his team.  As far as she’s concerned, his opinion on this matters more than anyone else’s.

“It’s not like it was science,” Lorne eventually says, his voice tight.  “It was torture.  But throwing it all away…does that mean they died for nothing?”

He looks around the table, everyone’s eyes dropping away from his gaze, only Keller answering.

“I don’t know,” she admits. 

“Colonel,” Lorne says, everyone’s attention coming to rest on Sam.  “What do you think?”

All of Lorne’s earlier ambiguousness is gone as he looks at her, leaving only a painful sort of implicit trust that doesn’t grate the way she thinks it should.  Instead she feels a strange certainty slide down her spine, something indefinable easing inside her.

In that moment, she knows exactly what needs to be done.

“I think I’m more worried about you right now, Major, than our hypothetical morality.” 

She can see his shoulders straighten, as if to counter any accusation of weakness on his part.  “Me?  I’m fine.”

He is far from fine, she knows.  She wonders if that is how she’s sounded these last few days, running around with a smile plastered on her face and “I’m fine!” never far from her lips.

“What I mean,” she clarifies, “is that I can’t protect you if this makes it back to Earth.”

She can’t stop the IOA or some other rogue interest from turning him into a science experiment in the name of the better good if any of this ever makes it into an official report.  She sees understanding ripple through the room, every eye moving to Jack.  The outsider.

“General?” Sam asks.

He meets her eyes across the room.  They both know her use of his rank is no accident.

Jack’s posture doesn’t change, still slouched back in his chair as if supremely indifferent to the conversation.  “As far as I’m concerned, Colonel, this is your call.  It’s not really any of the IOA’s business,” he says, lazily pushing to his feet.  “Or mine.”

She watches him leave the room, his voluntary absence saying a lot about his position on the subject and his faith in her.

There was a time she would have agreed with Rodney, he has to know that.

“We can win this war without their shortcuts,” Sam says, the decision far easier to make than she expects.  Maybe one day they will come to regret her decision, but she knows she can’t live with the alternative.  “Destroy all files associated with this research.  I don’t want a single trace of it left anywhere.”

“Sam,” Rodney protests, leaning forward in his chair.

“I mean it, Rodney,” Sam interrupts, her tone not leaving any room to doubt her seriousness.  “This is more important than your curiosity.”

He looks like he might put up a fuss for a moment before slouching back in his chair.  “Okay, fine,” he says, his hands held up in defense.  “Consider it done.”

Sam’s eyes slide over to John and he nods slightly, letting her know he’ll make sure it does.

“Dr. Keller,” Sam says.  “You’ll wipe all mention of this from Major Lorne’s file?”

“I will,” she promises.

“Good.”  Sam looks around the table, making sure everyone understands the gravity of this decision.  “ _If,_ someday, Major Lorne wishes to explore this further, it will be no one’s decision but his own.  Otherwise, this will not be spoken of again.  Is that understood?”

They all nod.

“Dismissed.”

One by one they file out of the room, leaving Sam sitting alone at the head of the table.

*     *     *

When Jack leaves the meeting, he doesn’t go far, just wandering out onto a balcony off the main control room.  Only thirty or so minutes pass before Sam finds him out there and it doesn’t escape his notice that it’s the first time since he’s gotten here that she’s been the one to seek him out.

“Meeting all done?” he asks as she steps up next to him at the railing, her shoulder brushing against his.

“Yup.”

He doesn’t ask her what has been decided, and she doesn’t offer, so they just stand there for a while, feeling the wind sweeping up off the ocean.

“So now what?” Jack eventually asks.

“Well,” she says, turning sideways to look at him with one hand raised to shade her eyes from the sun. “I’m thinking of taking Keller’s advice.”

That isn’t what he expects to hear.  “Yeah?”

She nods.  “A little time off will probably do me some good.”

He turns, leaning against the railing far enough to block the sun from her eyes.  “You finally figure out how to be in command and on vacation at the same time?”

Her lips twist into a wry smile.  “I’m thinking of going to the mainland for a few days.”

The mainland.  Close enough to be contacted in an emergency, but far enough away to relax for once.  Proof again that Sam’s brain can come up with a solution to anything if given enough time.

“I’m sure John can handle another few days of doing my paperwork.”  
   
“I’m sure he’ll love that,” Jack says, very happy to see that evil gleam in her eye directed at someone else for once.  He doubts Sheppard will ever make the mistake of finishing Sam’s paperwork while she’s gone ever again. 

“The only hitch is that I need someone who can fly a puddle jumper to get me there,” she says, looking up at him with her head titled to one side as if seriously considering the dilemma. 

Jack fights a smile, deciding to play along.  “Sounds like you need a chauffeur.”

She nods and then lifts her finger to poke him in the chest as if an idea has just come to her.  “Hey.  Don’t _you_ have the Ancient gene?”

“Why yes, I do,” he confirms, grabbing her finger.

“What a coincidence.”

They stare at each other with rather stupid grins on their faces until Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye and remembers that there is a room full of people just on the other side of the glass probably following this exchange with far too much curiosity. 

He lets go of her hand.  “So what are we talking about here? Beaches? Sweaty jungles? Dare I say deserts?”

“Temperate forest,” she says.

Jack groans.  “Tell me this isn’t a camping trip.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.  “Scared of roughing it for a few days?”

“One would assume you’ve already had more than enough camping to last a lifetime, Carter.”

“Yeah, well the site I have in mind has spectacular waterfalls and thermal pools and I don’t seem to remember visiting too many of those.”

Now Jack is interested.  “Too bad I didn’t think to pack my swimsuit.”

Sam leans into him, shamelessly brushing up against his arm as if they aren’t still easily in sight of everyone in the control room. 

“Well, then I won’t either,” she says with a smile that is probably as close to a leer as he has ever seen her get.

Jack clears his throat, blinking against the rather pleasant images now bombarding his brain, really wishing they were already on the mainland and well away from prying eyes.  “When do we leave?”

“I was thinking now.”

“Now is good,” he says, nodding his head emphatically. “Now is really, really good.”

He doesn’t even care if they have to eat MREs.


	6. Chapter 6

A Day Too Soon

Jack finds Sam lying on a large flat boulder, half under the dancing spotty shade of a tree.  Her legs are bent and hanging off the edge, toes dipping into the water below with the languid swish of her foot.  She has on the same insanely brief pair of shorts she’s been wearing the entire trip, today paired with a white tank top that’s partially pulled up to expose the smooth stretch of her stomach to the sun.  Her arms are draped up above her head, eyes closed.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen her quite this much at equilibrium before.  It makes him wish this little vacation could go on forever.

“You have to go back,” she surmises, not moving from her position.

He wonders how she can know that just from the sound of his footsteps, unless Woolsey’s panicked voice had somehow carried all the way from the jumper.  “I really wish I didn’t have to.”

She peers up at him, one eye still scrunched shut against the light.  “Are you asking for asylum?”

“You offering?”

She smiles, sitting up and holding out a hand to him.  “I think I could very easily get used to you being here.”

He settles on the rock behind her and she leans back against his chest.  “You don’t think I’d get in the way?”

“Maybe I like having you in my way,” she says with smirk, twisting slightly to look back at him.

He wraps his arms around her, his fingers meeting with the sun-warmed skin of her stomach.  He’s content for a while just to watch the thin trickle of the waterfall radiating ripples across the surface of the small pond, to listen to her soft sigh of contentment, but the knowledge of his imminent departure makes the temptation of her skin too much to pass up.

He runs his lips along the soft skin at the base of her neck, his tongue darting out to taste the mild salt of her skin and her head rolls back against his shoulder, offering him better access.  He continues to move his way across the top of her shoulder, sliding the strap of her tank top down and out of the way.  When she makes a soft sound, her fingers digging into his thigh in response, he grabs her waist and urges her to turn slightly until her feet lift up, the cool water dripping down his shin as her legs slide over his.

She’s more or less sitting in his lap now and he wastes no time leaning in to kiss her, finding her already halfway there, her hand sliding around the back of his neck, urging him closer.

The kiss gains momentum until he finally reluctantly pulls back with a groan.  “I _really_ need to get around to retiring one of these days.”

She makes a muffled sound akin to a huff of disbelief against his throat.  “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

He ignores the quip, refusing to be derailed.  “I’ll go back and quit and smuggle myself back over on the Daedalus.  Caldwell owes me one.”

She laughs, a warm throaty sound that makes his plan sound saner by the moment.  When he continues to just stare at her, her eyes widen.

“Are you serious?”

He holds on to the fantasy for a moment, playing it out in his mind.  There’s more than enough cold reality to douse it and he sighs, lowering his face to her sun-warmed hair.  “I don’t like the idea of another six months slipping by.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, her arms tightening around him. 

They both went into this with eyes open, knowing what it meant for her to take this job.  Nothing is going to make that distance any easier, but Jack thinks that having seen her here now, seen the people under her command, the way they all look after each other, it might just be enough to make it bearable.

“You know,” he says, “you’re doing a great job here.”

She leans back, seeming to scrutinize his expression.  There’s still something a little uncertain in her eyes as she looks at him.  “Yeah?” she asks.  
   
That last lingering thread of uncertainty doesn’t particularly worry him.  Self-doubt has always been the first thing she lets go of in a crisis, just another reason she is so damn good at what she does. 

“Yeah,” he says, reaching out to tug at her braid.  “But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not nice to hear,” she says, looking pleased.

“Just…could you try not to get snatched off-world anymore?  Consider it a personal favor.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promises, pressing a kiss to his jaw, her fingers dipping into the waist of his jeans.  “So…exactly how much time do we have?”

Jack bites back a groan as her hands move lower.  “Enough,” he replies, reaching for her.

She smiles.

~The End~


End file.
